But he had also said that the Yoshiwara women sold their bodies to the enemy. The thought sent a chill down her spine. It was true; she had slept with the enemy, and she still did. She had even allowed herself to care for Masaharu. What greater treachery could there be than that?
The afternoon sun beat down and the scents of flowers and grilling fish and sewage filled the air, so intense she thought she would suffocate. Outside one house the street was jammed from wall to wall with men, staring at the girls who had just filed into the cage there. Hana threaded her way through the crowd, shrinking as she brushed against one sweaty body after another. Lurking among the clients in their fine clothes were thin-faced men with hungry eyes, most likely northern soldiers on the run, like Yozo. Then she came nose to nose with a couple of heavy-set, thick-necked characters who were pushing their way through, no doubt looking out for fugitives. She felt a knot of fear like an iron fist in her stomach and slipped past as quickly as she could.
A stick-like figure in a glittering black kimono was hovering outside the Corner Tamaya, staring up and down. It was Auntie, her white-painted face contorted with rage. Little Chidori raced up to Hana, her plump cheeks glistening with sweat under the heavy make-up, and grabbed her sleeve. ‘Hurry, big sister, hurry,’ she panted. From the kitchens came the thump of cooks pounding fish for fishcakes and refining rice.
‘What a time to be late,’ Auntie hissed as Hana bowed, apologizing. ‘You know perfectly well what an important day this is. Go inside and get ready. Saburo’ll be at the Chrysanthemum Teahouse any moment now.’
Like the rest of the Yoshiwara, Edo-cho 1 was decked with bunting and lanterns. Girls scurried about twittering with excitement, geishas hurried past followed by their servants carrying their shamisens, jesters practised their acts and lads ran out of restaurants balancing trays of food piled one on top of the other. Everyone was even more magnificently dressed than usual and all, Hana knew, were hoping to catch Saburo’s eye as he promenaded through the Yoshiwara. But while the younger girls, who had never met Saburo, were burbling with excitement, the older women seemed oddly subdued.
Hana was stepping through the curtains at the door of the Corner Tamaya when Auntie turned. ‘Oh, I forgot,’ she said carelessly. ‘There was something I was supposed to tell you. Do you remember that Fuyu? She was here, asking for you.’
Hana gasped. Fuyu must have had a letter from Oharu and Gensuké and had brought it herself to make sure of a generous tip. That was why Auntie had been avoiding her gaze.
‘Where is she?’ she demanded.
‘You weren’t here, so I told her to come back tomorrow.’
Hana sat down heavily on the step. ‘She didn’t … leave anything for me?’ she said, close to tears.
‘No,’ Auntie said, pulling her to her feet. ‘She had someone with her – a man.’
Hana snatched her arm out of Auntie’s grasp. ‘What sort of man?’ she asked eagerly.
‘He certainly didn’t look as if he had any money,’ said Auntie, sniffing disdainfully.
‘But was he young? Was he old?’ If he was old and crippled, then it was surely Gensuké.
The mole on Auntie’s chin quivered. ‘I can’t say I paid much attention,’ she said. ‘Young, I suppose, and shabbily dressed. Not the sort of person we want around here.’
Young … So it had not been Gensuké. A dreadful possibility began to dawn on Hana. She had assumed her husband was dead and had been so eager to discover what had become of Oharu and Gensuké that she had given Fuyu her address – Fuyu, of all people. But supposing her husband was not dead – supposing he was alive – and Fuyu had gone to the house, met him and he had insisted Fuyu bring him straight here. Filled with one of his terrible rages, he would drag Hana home, take her out to the wood pile and cut her head off.
Shaking with terror, she put her hand on the wall to steady herself.
‘When … when were they here?’ she whispered.
‘A while ago,’ said Auntie. ‘Don’t waste time, we must go upstairs.’
Hana stood up, stumbling as Auntie hurried her inside and along the polished floors to her rooms, where the maids were busy laying out her bedding and the box for guests’ clothes, straightening the hanging scrolls and putting the last touches to the flower arrangements.
Her only chance, Hana thought, was to find someone to protect her, someone so powerful that even her husband dared not oppose him. For a moment she thought of Yozo, then shook her head. Even Masaharu was not that powerful and in any case she was not so foolish as to imagine that he would do anything that might jeopardize his career.
Yet there was someone who could protect her, someone rich and powerful, who was obliged to no one and who everyone told her always got what he wanted: Saburosuké Kashima. Maybe the famous Saburo would turn out to be her salvation.
26
In her room Hana was applying her make-up herself, putting it on more sparingly than usual. Instead of an opaque white mask she made it a pale sheen through which her delicate features were clearly visible. Her maids had combed her hair into a towering coiffure, set an elegant crown of corals on it and studded it with a few gilt and tortoiseshell hairpins. Even her kimonos were less elaborate than usual, somewhat filmy as befitted a warm evening on the cusp of autumn, with the topmost one a delicate shade of peach. The lavishness was left for the obi, a magnificent brocade embroidered with lions and peonies.
When she looked at herself in the mirror, the Hana she knew had disappeared. She had become Hanaogi, an enchantress presiding over an immense charade where men could do whatever they wanted, confident there would be no consequences.
She caught herself wishing that Yozo could see her now, when she was at her most beautiful. She pictured his face, remembering the way he had looked at her – and then shook her head, frowning at her own folly.
Her parlour had been polished, dusted and filled with hangings and decorations which exuded luxury and sensuality. The air was rich with fragrances of aloe, sandalwood, cinnamon and musk, and at the far end of the room were three damask cushions in front of a six-fold gilded screen, one for Hana, one for Kawanoto, Hana’s favourite attendant, who was to be the mistress of the revels, and one for the honoured guest, with a lacquered tobacco box beside each. Musical instruments had been propped against the walls, exquisitely embroidered kimonos were draped over kimono racks, obis heavy with gold thread were prominently displayed and a painted scroll hung in the alcove depicting a stork against the rising sun. It was far more lavish than any daimyo’s palace could ever be.
As the time for Saburo’s arrival grew near, Auntie scuttled in and looked Hana up and down, straightening her kimono collars and adjusting the crown on her hair with a gnarled finger. Maids trooped in bringing trays of food – simmered vegetables artfully cut, whole baby squid, platters of thin white noodles and small purple aubergines pickled in sake lees. They spread them on a low table along with flagons of sake, flasks of plum wine and a large glass bowl filled with water, in which tiny transparent fish darted about.
‘Whitebait,’ said Auntie, beaming proudly. ‘We had them sent specially from Kyushu. They certainly weren’t cheap.’ She smacked her lips as if anticipating the huge amount of money that she would charge her guest for this feast. ‘Saburo-sama has very demanding tastes.’
Hana took a deep breath and forced herself to remain calm. She needed to bewitch Saburo to make sure he became her patron, but to do that she would have to sleep with him; there would be no escaping that.
Tama had given her some advice when she was new to the quarter: ‘Encourage the client to drink as much as possible, then, when you retire to bed, let him have his way immediately. Then make him do it again. Remember to squeeze your buttocks and grind your hips to left and right. That will tighten the jade gate and make him reach satisfaction quickly. He’ll be exhausted and fall asleep and you’ll be able to get some sleep yourself.’
Until that evening she had lain only with clients she liked a
nd had never needed Tama’s advice; tonight would be the night to apply it.
With a twinge of panic she heard clogs clattering along the street towards the Corner Tamaya, first soft then louder, shuffling and clacking as if a line of people were dancing along in a carnival parade. As the singing and clapping grew, Hana slipped out of the room into a side chamber. Through the thin paper doors she made out the high-pitched chatter of geishas and the shuffle of feet across the tatami as people came trooping in.
She closed her eyes, but to her horror found Yozo’s words running through her mind like a mantra: ‘I will protect you.’ Furious with herself, and with him for distracting her, she clenched her fists and forced herself to concentrate.
Auntie glanced at her to make sure she was ready, then slid open the door with a flourish and Hana stepped forward into the light. She saw her room and the people in it frozen as if lit by a flash of lightning – the jester in his beige robe with a handkerchief on his head, toes coyly turned in, mimicking a courtesan; smiling black-toothed geishas fluttering fans; and at the far side of the room, next to Kawanoto, a large bulky presence – the man who would be paying for these festivities.
Hana lifted her skirts and revealed her bare foot, well aware of the effect it had as, peeping from beneath the froth of silk and brocade, it conjured up the woman concealed inside. Swinging her train, she glided across the room and took her place on her knees opposite her guest. She lifted a sake cup, drank, then peeked through her lashes at Saburo.
He was fat, grossly so, a great dumpling of a man – but rich men tended to be fat, she told herself. He was old, too, but that was not unusual either. He was expensively dressed, his vast bulk swathed in a robe of finest purple and black silk with a poem beautifully calligraphed in gold thread across the sleeves and collar, but it was stained with sake and there were sweat marks across the chest and under the arms. On top of his large round body, like a tangerine balanced on top of a pumpkin-sized rice cake, was a small round head, with bulging eyes surrounded by folds of skin. All in all, he looked like an enormous toad.
Hana looked him up and down. He was clearly a man used to getting his own way, but she knew that to yield to him immediately would be a bad move. The best strategy would be to make him wait, to stoke his desire to a blaze until the statutory third visit at least, so that when he finally got what he wanted, it would be all the more of a thrill for him. Nevertheless she couldn’t put him off for ever. A man like him had the power to protect her from her husband and for that she needed to keep him under her spell.
She arranged her skirts and looked at Saburo demurely. It was customary to spar with a customer, to play with him as a cat plays with a mouse. Remembering Tama’s lessons, she turned away from him a little and inclined her head so that he could glimpse the unpainted nape of her neck.
‘So you’re Saburo-sama,’ she said in silky tones. ‘You’ve neglected us for so long, it’s quite unforgivable. And now you reappear and book me, of all people, when you don’t even know me.’
‘Our older sister Tama has been dying of love for you, did you know that?’ piped Kawanoto, joining in, all wide-eyed innocence. ‘She hasn’t been able to sleep a wink ever since you left. But now, after crying and weeping for months, she’s found a new favourite. But I suppose you found someone down in Osaka that you cared for more than us.’
‘That’s not true,’ Saburo said, simpering, a purple flush suffusing his ugly cheeks. ‘How could I care for anyone except all of you at the Corner Tamaya?’ His face creased into a grin, revealing several missing front teeth. ‘The moment I heard about the famous Hanaogi, I rushed straight back from Osaka. And you really are as beautiful as everyone says – more so, in fact.’
The dancing had started. A troupe of geishas beat out a haunting melody on shamisens, shoulder drums and flute while one warbled a song; then a pair performed a dance, gesturing with their fans while the jester minced about playing a courtesan. He glanced towards the guest but Saburo was staring at Hana through half-closed eyes.
‘More sake?’ Hana said, topping up his cup. She wanted to be sure there would be no evening fumbles tonight, at least.
Saburo picked up his cup, emptied it in one gulp, then beckoned to one of his attendants, a sharp-eyed fellow kneeling at the side of the room. The man slid forward on his knees holding several lengths of fine red damask and laid them out in front of Hana.
‘What makes you think I’m for sale?’ she asked, pretending to be offended as she refilled his sake cup. She was taking care to drink as little as possible herself.
‘Hanaogi never loses her heart to anyone,’ prattled Kawanoto. ‘All the rest of us have favourites but she never does. Men say she has a heart of ice and no one can melt it. Every man who comes to the quarter is eager to be her patron but she won’t have any of them.’
‘I’m not every man,’ growled Saburo. His face had turned dark red and his eyes and mouth were narrow slits. He was staring at Hana again, as if he was picturing what lay beneath her many kimonos.
There was a commotion outside the room as the door slid open and Auntie crept in on her hands and knees and pressed her face to the tatami matting, then raised her head. In the candlelight her face was a white mask and her wig glistened with oil.
‘Yodo River carp!’ she crowed.
A maid paraded in bearing aloft a large cypress-wood cutting board on which was a whole carp. Its body had been transformed into slices of pale pink flesh laced with red and piled on top of the skeleton with such lightning speed that the head, which was still attached, was twitching with life. The whole creation was laid on a bed of white radish and dark green kelp so skilfully arranged that it looked as if it was swimming through the sea. There was a roar of appreciation from the jester and geishas as the maid placed it on the table in front of Saburo.
Saburo licked his lips. ‘Where’s the chef?’ he roared. ‘Why didn’t he cut it before our eyes? That would have been a show.’
The attendant put a sake cup to the carp’s lips, tilted it up and poured in a few drops. Saburo watched intently as the fish’s throat convulsed as it swallowed, then he began to laugh, clutching his stomach and rocking to and fro. The attendants, the jester and the geishas looked at him nervously for a moment, then joined in. Finally he turned to Hana, wiping his eyes and looking at her. His face had become stony.
‘You can play all the games you like, my beauty,’ he said, ‘but I’ll have you in the end. You’ll dance to my tune.’
A chill ran down Hana’s spine. ‘I can see you’re a man who knows what he wants.’ She gestured towards the glass bowl of splashing fish. ‘Even whitebait. It’s out of season, isn’t it?’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But not in Kyushu.’
Kawanoto scooped out a few of the darting fish and put them into a small bowl. She poured in soy sauce and the fish thrashed madly, turning the sauce into foam. Hana took a pair of chopsticks but before she had time to pick out a fish for him, Saburo had grabbed the bowl in both hands, put it to his mouth and tipped the whole lot in. He clamped his lips shut and held the fish in his mouth, his cheeks puffed out. Hana could almost hear the fish thrashing, beating against his teeth and tongue and cheeks. Then he swallowed, his eyes bulging, and grasped his huge stomach, grinning idiotically.
‘What a feeling!’ he grunted. ‘They’re squirming. I can feel them squirming!’
There was a long silence, then the jester and attendants started to laugh and the geishas to titter. Finally they all applauded and Hana smiled and put her hands together too.
Saburo had turned an intense shade of puce which spread until it entirely covered his bald head. Very slowly, like a great tree in a forest glen, he toppled over on to his side, gave a long sigh and began to snore.
Hana waited for a while to make sure he was really asleep, watching his great stomach rising and falling, then stood up slowly and, still feeling a little nervous, crept out of the room. At least she would not have to worry about entertaining Sa
buro tonight.
27
The quarter was quiet when Hana stepped outside. The flames in the paper lanterns along the eaves and in front of the doors had been snuffed out and when she looked up she could see hundreds of stars twinkling in the dark sky. She had had a lucky escape, she thought.
Out of the corner of her eye she caught a movement in the gloom. There was someone there, a man. She spun round.
Even in the darkness she could see that he was not a client. He was too young and had the starved, half-crazed look of a northern fugitive. She shrank back into the shadows. He was big, a lot bigger than her, and had a hefty staff and a bundle, with a smell about him of dirty clothes and stale bedding.
He bowed brusquely like a soldier.
‘Excuse me,’ he said in a clear, loud voice. ‘I’m looking for the courtesan Hanaogi.’
Hana glanced around, relieved she had changed out of her robes and loosened her hair. ‘What do you want with her?’ she asked.
‘I have a message.’
‘Go inside and ask for Auntie and give it to her.’
He shook his head. ‘I’m under orders to give it to Hanaogi personally.’
Puzzled, Hana looked at him more carefully. He spoke with the soft burr and flat vowels of central Japan. He was from Kano, she realized, like she and her husband were. It was not just his accent that was familiar; there was something about the way he held himself, legs apart as if braced for an attack. His face was gaunt and half hidden under a thick layer of stubble and there was a livid scar under his ear, but she was sure she had seen his squashed nose and bunched forehead before.
Then it came back. It had been the day her husband left. Waiting outside the house she had seen a group of young men in blue jackets standing silently at the gate. Her husband had barked an order and one had stepped forward. Hana had looked up and for a moment had locked eyes with a tall, big-boned youth with a ferocious scowl and hair flaring like a bush around his head. To her amusement he had blushed to the tips of his ears. Her husband had pushed the youth over to her father-in-law, who was leaning on his sword like a battle-hardened veteran.
The Courtesan and the Samurai Page 21
